


Apologies & Promises

by twasallaruse (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary is dead, PTSD John, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Spooning, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/twasallaruse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's nightmares worsened after Sherlock fell and made no improvement when he returned. When Sherlock's apologies are not enough, he makes promises that will change the nature of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologies & Promises

A small body, black coat billowing, fell freely from the tombstone-colored building. John squeezed his eyes shut, predicting exactly what would happen: gravity would pull the body down, bones would splinter and veins would burst. His heart sank, matching the man's vertical descent from the roof of the hospital. But Sherlock just kept falling; John's heart kept sinking. There was no closure, no end in sight. Just the sickening free-fall.

John bolted upright, flinging sweaty covers off his lap like they were live grenades. Blood surged through his arteries, throbbing in his ringing ears. His face was damp--from tears or sweat, he didn't know. Inhale deeply for eight seconds, exhale fully for six seconds. Inhale for eight, exhale for six. His chest shook with soft sobs. John clenched the sheets until his fingers went numb.

Dark eyes fixed on him from the doorway, but that was the last of his worries. It took him several minutes to calm down from his nightmare; by the time he settled, the stare from his flatmate was gone.

* * *

The kitchen smelled like formaldehyde and cigarettes when John stepped downstairs the next morning. "Case?" He asked Sherlock, who was lying on the couch with his fingers steepled under his chin.

"Mmh," Sherlock muttered, eyes closed. "We're out of milk."

"Of course we are." John rolled his eyes. He searched the cabinets for anything still edible. They were running low on groceries, so John made a mental note to stop by the store on the way home from the clinic.

"I'll pick some up."

"Sorry, what?" John's mind must still be focused on last night's nightmare. No way he heard that correctly.

"I can get milk later today." Sherlock sat up and ruffled his messy hair. "Could stand to get spices too, for further experiments."

"You? Doing the shopping for once?" He actually laughed out loud.

Sherlock frowned. "Problem?"

"No, just--you never do the shopping."

"Experiments, John. You have work and I need things soon."

It would be a miracle if Sherlock actually followed through with this "dull" errand. "Fine, alright." John took the last two pieces of bread for toast, scraped them with the last of the jam, and planned to visit the store just in case.     

* * *

It was different having Sherlock back. John’s life was more lively with constant cases and unexpected circumstances taking them both to all parts of London. Much to the annoyance of his employer, John was no longer confined to an office for long hours seeing patients whose problems he could easily solve in a matter of minutes. Routine left when Sherlock returned.

Sometimes John would admit to himself that he missed the domestic lifestyle with Mary. It was nice to settle down for an indefinite period of time. Cabinets were always stocked, bills were always paid, and companionship was always certain. Living with Mary was great, though John would also admit that he was never quite as melancholy about her death as Sherlock's.

What he really missed was the spontaneity, the danger, the thrill of the chase that Sherlock carried in his wake.

The nightmares were worse, though.

_4 dead. Possible serial killer. Meet at the Yard. -SH_

John glanced at his phone and smiled. Still, it beat a 9-to-5 and saving for retirement.

_Need to call off. Be there in 30 minutes._  

* * *

Four days, two more murders, a chase through the London Underground, and a serial killer in police custody left the two men exhausted but exhilarated. The case wrapped up around one in the morning, and Chinese take-out was the only dinner option. John made sure that Sherlock ate something to make up for four days without--"Really, John, how can I work at maximum power with something as trivial as food slowing me down?" And after four days with little to no sleep, Sherlock and John nearly passed out after climbing the stairs to their flat.

John woke up on the couch fourteen hours later. The curtains were pulled shut, allowing in only a sliver of golden light.

Sherlock stared through one of the windows. He cradled his violin under his chin and played a few pleasant chords softly. He was lost in thought, as he didn't stir when John ambled to the kitchen.

From his view by the sink, John absorbed the scene. Sherlock was standing in the only light in the room, his face obscured on one side by deep shadows and illuminated on the other. The crimson violin gave his ivory face a rosy tint. This, the calm after the storm, was the best thing about living with Sherlock. (Who was being considerate, for once.) These few minutes of peace and quiet were sacred, and nothing save another case should interrupt.

Life had a funny way of playing out.

"Sherlock?" John said, opening the cabinets. "You actually got groceries?" Everything was replenished--bread, tea, butter, jam, even milk.

The violin halted. "Yes, I said I would."

John frowned. "This isn't like you, Sherlock."

Sherlock put down his violin and joined John in the kitchen.

"You never went shopping, never did anything remotely domestic, until--" John swallowed. "What changed?"

John turned to see Sherlock towering above him, a marble statue with black eyes.

"It's not like you" came out in a breath.

"John, I... it's my apology."

"What for?" Both were whispering, as if the silence were as tangible and fragile as the surface of still water. 

"In the two years since I faked my death, your nightmares have worsened. Process of elimination says that they're not war flashbacks but memories from..." Sherlock paused. "I am sorry, John."

"It's all fine, you explained."

"The damage is still there. I can never mend it. It’s my fault it’s there."

A brief silence filled the space between them. "It's not just about the nightmares, is it?" John asked. An imperceptible shake of the head was all John needed. He reached up to embrace his friend, standing on his toes to do so. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around John’s waist. No other words were necessary.      

* * *

_“Okay, look up, I’m on the rooftop.”_

_“Oh, god.”_

_“I—I… I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”_

_“What’s going on?”_

John clung to the covers, unconsciously anchoring himself to reality. His jaw tightened and his eyes shut like vises. Blood surged audibly through him, his heartbeat quickened, and a deluge of fear and sadness cascaded through his mind. There was nothing to stop Sherlock from jumping.

_“No. Alright, stop it now!”_

_“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move!”_

_“Alright!”_

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?”_

_“Do what?”_

_“This phone call, it’s…it’s my note. That’ s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”_

_“Leave a note when?”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_“No, don’t—“_

John’s lungs seized mid-breath. Sherlock was going to jump. He was going to jump and there was nothing to stop him. He’d hung up the phone, he’d stopped listening. “Sherlock!” He screamed.

“John—John, it’s okay! It’s okay.”

John felt arms snake around him, forcing him sit up. His breathing was rapid and shallow; he couldn’t move, could barely open his eyes. “Sherlock!”

“It’s okay—John, I’m here, I’m fine.” Sherlock lurched into John’s gaze, holding him out at arm’s length. “I’m right here. I’m fine.”

“Sherlock,” John wheezed, clawing at his friend, making sure he was there. “My god, you jumped—you were dead, I couldn’t do anything!”

Sherlock pulled him close. John held on tightly, still whimpering.

“Don’t ever, ever leave me like that,” John sobbed into Sherlock’s shirt. “Sherlock, don’t—“

“Never again,” Sherlock whispered, resting his face on John’s shoulder.

“Because you—you died, you left me for two years, Sherlock, and I… I didn’t know what to do.” John breathed shakily. “I had no one.”

Sherlock straightened, extending his arms so he was eye-to-eye with John. “I give you my word, I won’t leave you again. I couldn’t bear to.” He drew in a deep breath. “I was lost without you. John, I—every day, for two years, I thought of coming back. I couldn’t of course because I had Moriarty’s empire to deal with, but—“

“Two years I grieved, Sherlock. Two years I replayed the scene over and over in my head, trying to save you every time. But I couldn’t. And I never want to go through that again.”

“You won’t have to.” With all the delicacy and audacity that 3 AM brought, Sherlock took John’s face in his hands. “I swear to you, John Watson, I won’t leave you. Not now, not ever. I’m staying—right here.”

Only then did John close his eyes again. “Then please… stay with me.” He couldn’t find the words to explain why he needed Sherlock at his side. It wasn’t about his nightmares, not entirely. It was an urgency two years in the making.  

John felt himself being lowered back on his side. An arm slid between him and the bed and moved back up to secure him. Sherlock understood, then. He pulled aside the covers and slid next to John, drawing him in. Sherlock easily matched the contour of John’s body.

“You’ll be here in the morning?” John drawled, already half asleep.

“Promise.”


End file.
